


Time To Dream

by What_About_Bugs



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dalish headcanons, Lore friendly, M/M, Memory Loss, Multiclass Headcanons, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Some Alternate Universe Shit but It's Given by the Chapter, Some RAUNCHY depictions of platonic friendship, Sometimes You Just Gotta Stab A Guy, Why Did In-Game Lavellan Have No Dalish Accent, i will die on this hill, maybe some smut, non-canon lavellan clan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26972230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_About_Bugs/pseuds/What_About_Bugs
Summary: "Do you think we would've met if I wasn't at the Conclave?"Lavellan is a man of many talents; trying his best, drinking half his body weight in swill, lying by omission... his schedule is always packed. Thus, it takes an especially fetching distraction for him to make time. Luckily enough, he gets distracted easily.Some short stories in which Lavellan is an idiot despite the setting and Dorian is always his favourite distraction.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Kudos: 18





	1. An Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set while the Inquisition is still in Haven, running around and being do-gooders. (b/w chapter 3 and chapter 4 of A Sure Thing). It's is SO corny but sometimes you just need a little bit of that Good Good to get you through the brutal monotony of life

Their battlefield now laid silent. Destroyed bodies wrenched in different directions artfully decorated the forest floor. Little shards of red lyrium still pierced the trunks of surrounding trees, given they'd been used as projectiles. The birdsong around them was audible once more.

The party collected itself. Their rogue helped the mage to his feet. Their warriors sheathed their weapons. Lavellan stepped over a tangled corpse to help pick little pieces of lyrium out of a groove in Cassandra's armor. A gentle light grew on the forest floor around them as little barely-there things--mites? spirits?--got to work picking apart the bodies. In a flurry, they huddled over anything that was still flesh and ate at it until none remained. Lavellan could recall Solas calling them something, a number of weeks ago. The name escaped him, now.

It was disheartening to know the little light show wasn't an act of the Maker; calling his children home. Just some hungry little glowing bugs.

“How’s your leg, Dorian?” Lavellan asked, reeling in his panting breaths. The mage, propped up against a tree with some help from Varric, gave a blasé shrug. They were out of potions and severely low on mana, but they were alive. Barely. They each had their fair share of bruises and cuts--Lavellan with the lion's share--though none of them too serious save for the mage’s leg.

“Oh, you know. Terrible. You have an _arrow_ sticking out of your shoulder, by the way.” Dorian replied stiffly, wiggling a finger towards the Herald’s warped metal pauldron. Letting out a quietly surprised sound at the infiltrator, Lavellan was quick to snap the length of the arrow and toss it aside before working it out of the fold in his armor it had, fortunately, wedged itself into rather than his flesh. The area was tender, but nothing more.

“All better. Leg?” Lavellan asked again, bright-eyed and smiling despite the drying blood framing one side of his face.

“You’re one lucky dog,” Varric laughed weakly, “honestly, I don’t know what you’re made of.” He nursed a sore spot on his left side, Bianca swung over his other shoulder.

“I’m thinking… dragon bone.” Cassandra sighed, rolling her shoulder. Her armor took most of the punishment but it hung from her drooping form like a heavy, awkward shroud. Lavellan crouched to check up on the mage’s leg, where a shard of debris had wedged itself into his calf. It wasn’t bleeding too freely, thankfully, but it would need to be dealt with. Soon.

“Well, nothing else for it, then. We need to camp.” Lavellan sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Dorian replied dryly, “But I can’t walk to camp.”

"Oh _no,"_ Varric drawled, "looks like someone has to carry you. Heroically."

“Oh, pity!” Lavellan chortled. His hands freed of his pack, he shuffled around to get into position, grinning cheekily all the while. Boyishly.

"Do I have any say in this?" Dorian asked, tensing up visibly.

"No, sir, you do not. Come, stand still." In a careful movement, he lifted the mage from the ground, one arm hooked under his knees and the other at his shoulders. Dorian let out a yelp as he was picked up like little more than a sack of cabbages, fingers already digging at a vice grip in Lavellan's shoulder.

“Hey-- easy!” Lavellan hissed, “I’m not going't drop you. I’d never hear the end of it.” The grip lessened, but an ornery face made up the difference. It dissolved quickly enough once the moment caught up. Lavellan gestured with a jerk of his head for Cassandra to take point. “Start us off, if y' please? Probably shouldn’t toss our mage at the enemy, should we find any.”

“Though that might be a good tactic,” Varric suggested, “throw him hard enough and you could launch him behind enemy lines.” His laughter coiled behind a tricky grin, which was just as loud as the cackle they all knew well enough.

“I’m certain the Bull’s suggested that before.” Lavellan hummed, shifting the man in his arms with a grunt. They carried on through the dense wood until the gentle clearing of a road met their path. They were a few hundred paces down it when he let his eyes turn from it and towards the man he carried. He did his best to not look jeering with his smile. Dorian had one arm looped around the back of his neck, but his other fiddled at his abdomen.

“...You’re awfully quiet for once,” Lavellan murmured, taking his eyes back to the road for a moment. The jab earned an impassive hum and nothing more. Worried enough about being dropped should he rib the Herald back, perhaps.

“Just savouring this experience.” Dorian replied. It begat a quiet snicker.

“Oh, please, make yourself at home. No, really, go right ahead.” Lavellan invited, “can I get you anything? Light refreshments? Petit fours?”

“Some peeled grapes would be nice.” Dorian sighed, letting his head loll against his shoulder. Lavellan laughed a bit louder.

“I’ll get to work on that soon as I’ve got my hands free,” he reassured.

-

Lavellan spent little time in the camp once they arrived. It was a shocking change, as well as a bit peculiar, to see that silly, boyish smile drop from his face and have his _Herald_ look replace it. It made Dorian second-guess just how bad his injury actually was. Lavellan gave an order for bandages and elfroot as he passed through, sending off soldiers in a number of directions. They were diligent, but the mage looked well enough for the soldiers to keep up their entertained staring as they went about their task.

The peaceful silence of a tent was almost daunting. Lavellan set him down on a bedroll, too tender and too gentle and altogether too into Dorian’s head. It was both a blessing and a curse when those hands finally left him and he was left to puzzle over it on his own.

Lavellan was lucky to be such a good distraction. Even laying on his stomach, staring into the rough hide of the tent, Dorian could still stay horribly enraptured. He went on about… _something_ that happened with his advisors. None too scandalous, but not too much of a milquetoast bore. Probably. Dorian wasn’t listening to him talk so much as the little laughs he let out between words. They were terribly endearing and almost enough distraction from the throbbing pain in his leg.

“You know, if you’re going to get hurt, I don’t mind if I need to carry you. Honestly, what fun. But could you at least get a clean slash? This is a pain to stitch and you're testing my skill in needlework.” Lavellan sighed. Dorian could picture the shaking of his head and the chiding tuts he was making under his breath even without looking. He was quite fond of those. The strange little faces he made.

“Of _course,_ Your Worship. I’ll endeavor to be more particular about the bodily injury I suffer in the future.” Dorian replied evenly, one cheek squished against his fist as he waited for his gash to be mended. His other hand drummed against his arm, fidgeting to make the time pass. He could probably heal it himself, once his mana was back up to the task. A salve might do, otherwise.

“Alright, good as new,” Lavellan informed, “You can roll over now. It might scar, but I’m sure it’ll look dashing, so I'd say it doesn't matter.” He continued flippantly, wiping off his bloodied hands onto a damp rag. He grabbed a roll of bandage next, pulling Dorian’s leg into his lap. The force of it tugged the rest of him closer with a casualness that was alarming, considering how it made Dorian’s mind blank.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Dorian said, keeping the cheeky smile from his voice as much as he was able, "I keep forgetting." He leaned back on his hands. At least now he had a view to enjoy. Lavellan wound a loop around his calf and tied it loose before wrapping the rest of the bandage over it. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“Yes, well, I’m not meant to be shaped like the Iron Bull. Maker, can you imagine?” He chuckled, “but it’s a fun surprise, don’t you think?”

“Certainly,” Dorian hummed in reply, trying to not sound _too_ agreeable. Lavellan didn’t reply for a while, too focused when he worked. Smooth brow set in concentration, his eyes dashed back and forth over his work. Fetching.

They were almost... catlike. Dorian wondered if he'd ever talked someone out of their belongings--money, drawers--in such a way that only a select few could; pleasantly and courteously, despite the intention. Making it seem like giving away everything was a service unto themselves. He wondered if he _would._

Lavellan’s hands paused for a fleeting moment as he brushed a long strand of hair behind his ear. He'd found him odd, at first, and the thought made him want to laugh aloud. He'd never encountered an elf like him--a _man_ like him--but perhaps that was for the best. It made him seem more special. Fitting, for a one-of-a-kind hero of everything. Those unfamiliar qualities were just _him_ now, same as the armor he wore or the shape of his nose. There wasn’t a thing he would change.

Lavellan tugged the bandages taut and tied off the loose end. He offered Dorian a sweet smile and patted his shin.

“All better. Need me to kiss it?” He asked, gathering the elfroot and the small bowl of water he’d been afforded to treat the wound. Dorian rolled his eyes and cursed the Maker in silence for the teasing.

“What about my grapes?” He asked, playing it off.

“Oh, how cruel of me, you’re right.” Lavellan hummed, standing with a lopsided smile. “I’ll scrounge something up.”


	2. A Night Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after some Sexy Times in chapter 20 of A Sure Thing. The FIRST time they do the do for real

“Suppose this makes things more complicated,” Lavellan murmured, fist crushed against his cheek as he used it to prop his head up. Lain out on his side, his other hand traced little circles into the bed in the small space between them. His chest was now finished heaving with his breaths, the thin sheen of sweat on both of them shining in the firelight. Dorian’s eyes flicked over his flushed face momentarily.

“If you’d... like them to be,” The mage replied, steadying his breaths and letting loose the question to hang in the air. What did he want? What did either of them want? There was a sense of tense anticipation to it.

“My life could use more complexity, I think,” Lavellan hummed, “but... only if it's from you. That's my favourite sort of trouble.” Wry though the reply was, his words were honest.

“So, I’m _trouble_ now, am I?” Dorian guffawed, chest shaking with the sound. The elf’s other hand followed the line of his arm and came to rest over the expanse of skin, wandering over the fine, dark hairs.

“The name _would_ suit you,” he replied, studying the mage's profile from behind brownish lashes. The man's lips were twisted into a tight purse, covering the smile that threatened to appear. If the thrumming of his heart under the elf’s fingertips was any indication, _something_ he’d said was quite pleasing.

“I could call you _vhenan,"_ he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to Dorian’s jaw, "If I _really_ wanted to cause a stir. I'm sure Solas would be shocked out of his slippers.”

“Here's hoping it's not _too_ undignified an insult,” Dorian replied past slowly smiling lips. With his eyes falling on him once more, Lavellan felt obligated to put on a show. He wound up his face in an exaggeratedly pensive expression. With his free hand, he gave his own chin an animated little tap.

“...No, it’s most assuredly _just_ the worst,” he said, dropping his hand once more. Needy for touch, it came to rest on the curve of the mage's bicep.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what it means.”

“I don't even know why you bothered to ask.” Lavellan replied, hand sliding down Dorian’s chest to find one of his hands, tangling together their fingers. When he looked up once more, the smile he spotted was larger, if a little more bittersweet.

“I must admit, I… wasn’t expecting this,” Dorian murmured, interrupting himself with a sigh, "any of it, really."

“Are you pleased?” Lavellan asked, lifting their hands together so that he could brush the mage’s hand against his lips. “Because if you’re not pleased, we’ll have to do this over again.”

“Oh, is _that_ your prerogative?” Dorian asked, letting out a laugh. “ _Yes_ , of _course_ I’m pleased, you little imp--” he cut himself off with another manic laugh that was edging too near a sob. He brought up his free hand to wipe fitfully at his eyes, determined to keep his composure even as he was losing it in full view.

“Awh, that’s not fair,” Lavellan murmured, filling the growing silence as Dorian’s vulnerability started to show. “You still look handsome when you’re breaking down. You've got to teach me that one; I can only do it one way, and it's a snotty, awful mess when I do. You wouldn't believe it. I look like a wee gremlin.” He chided, playing the part of _the facetious_ to make it feel like he could distract them both from it, for pride's sake. He slipped his hand from their messy entanglement to instead cup Dorian’s far cheek. The mage, sniffling and smiling bitterly despite it, let out a weak sigh.

“Maker, this is the worst way this could have gone,” Dorian whined lowly, averting his eyes as he waved a hand towards them, as if it would make them dry faster. Hardly a single tear had actually _fallen,_ but it didn't matter much to him.

“Oh, I don’t know, it could be raining.” Lavellan joked, letting out a boyish laugh despite himself before leaning in to press a few soft kisses along the mage’s forehead, “and I’ve _definitely_ seen you in worse states. Covered in blood, piss drunk; to name two. Still thought you were a sight for sore eyes both those times.” Lavellan supplied, laying down more kisses with every few words.

“You think you’re so funny,” Dorian grumbled, limply giving into the easy affection. Once it stopped, he rubbed at his eyes like a headache had formed. Subtly, he hid his face behind his fingertips.

“I _am_ funny,” Lavellan protested, “come, don’t be so hard on yourself for this. Am not bothered, really, I’m not.”

“You must’ve had some _terrible_ past partners,” Dorian murmured, words lightly muffled.

“Funny story, actually,” Lavellan chuckled, rolling over to lay on top of the other man, pulling up the bed’s thick blanket over them both as he went. “This _one_ time, a nice young woman took me to this _wonderful_ gazebo, waxing all poetic about how I’m her true love, et cetera, et cetera. We sit down on this ancient wood bench--I’m tellin’ you, still-got-splinters-on-my-arse-from-the- _fucking_ -seat, sort of ancient--an’ out o' nowhere, she tries to _stab_ me.” He rattled off, making himself comfortable on Dorian’s chest.

“Oh, how charming. With what?” The mage asked, politely interested. A weak smile had started to take up residence.

“A little... dessert fork, sort of thing. With the three prongs. I reckon she stole it from the café we'd been to. That, or she _always_ had a fork in her sleeve, which I’d not put past the lass. Anyway, she goes straight for my jugular, and _I’m_ thinking I’ve stumbled into a trap; some sort of _plot_ , some... well-to-do dandy trying to assassinate me. But no. _Evidently_ , she was ready to kill us both so this spell she’d cast would bond us for eternity, or some rot. Really, it was half-hatched.” One of Dorian's hands came to rest lazily at Lavellan's shoulder. The other laid out over the expanse of blanket atop them, toying with the fabric layer.

“My, what a sordid tale. How did it end? Do tell.” It was wry and tired; asking more for him to keep talking and smiling than for the rest of the story.

“Perished at the hands of a lovelorn woman,” Lavellan replied gravely, “my fault for agreeing to take her out, I say. Didn’t know until afterwards that her father was a Mortalitasi. Probably put all those ideas in her head about all that... _stuff._ A lesson well-learned on my end, I say.”

“I bet. No more courting Mortalitasi? Shame.” Dorian hummed.

“Oh no, I went on to keep doing _that_ bit. I just give people pat-downs before we go anywhere private, lookin' for cutlery.” Lavellan giggled, letting a wide smile cross his lips. Dorian let out a fuller laugh at the jest, eyes now dry and cheeks flush.


	3. Tevinter - I [AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a moment in A Sure Thing, chapter 46
> 
> “I might’ve gone to Tevinter. I was going to, you know, before I got the letter to come south. Would’ve stayed at my job.”  
> “I can see it now. You, my knight in shining armor come to save me from a life of silent torture and… political dealings, probably.”
> 
> Stay tuned for more bullshit ;)

Syrillon gave an appraising once-over to the gleaming, orange-green fruit in his grasp. A cursory whiff and his eyes wandered, keeping those familiar coattails in his periphery. They started to move once more and he dropped a silver to pay for a dozen more than the single fruit he’d taken. He took a small bite and the saccharine flesh submitted, smooth but grainy. He scanned the market, steps set to their path at a few scant paces behind the Antivan he trailed along after.

“Syrillon.” It was his usual, even tone; barely above speaking level despite the rabble. Attentive, the elf skipped a few steps closer to make himself more apparent.

“M’Lord?” He drawled, taking another small bite of the pear in his grasp. The man fixed his ruffled cuffs and gave Syrillon a brief glance up and down.

“I have business here,” he said, not specifying _where,_ exactly, he meant. The elf already knew that asking would yield only an inconvenienced-sounding sigh and no real answer. So, he kept his pleasant smile and gave a little nod. “Stay here. Don’t start anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied lightly, giving the man a coy little wave of his fingers. Quickly, his cold company disappeared into crisscrossing lines of traffic. Syrillon, left alone, turned back to the market.

It was starting to grow denser and more insular the longer he idled. He chewed another smooth mouthful of his purchase as he hopped up to stand on the edge of some steep, stone-carved steps. Where they led, he hadn't the foggiest idea, but a sparse stream of people headed to and fro by them. Grimy slaves, servants with their eyes down, men and women on their way to... somewhere else. Feet tucked to one side of an unlit brazier lining their path, he leaned his back to the stone and watched the crowds.

Courtly, made-up women strolled along one side of the foot traffic, fanning their powdered faces and chasing away any inkling of perspiration from the growing mid-day heat. Slaves trailed along behind them, keeping their skirts from sweeping up street filth as they went. Working men and upper class alike seemed to rush by, parchment in bundles in their hands, or else a pail of water or some other task yet to be done. This or that, headed to Maker-knew-where, caught up in their own little world.

There was a glimpse, somewhere in the nebulous rabble, of an especially striking colour. It caught the light stunningly; then, after the briefest moment, it was gone. His snack finished, Syrillon tossed away its remnants into a decorative planter and hopped down from his vantage point, letting out a low whistle to himself. Carefully, he weaved himself through the people, still snatching little peeks at that bright vermillion when they parted enough to tease him with it. It seemed to shine in the sunlight. Whatever was it? Silk? He supposed he was expected to know, given all the clothing-related duties he went through on a daily basis; order this, export that, I-need-ten-yards-of-this-for-this-by-this-time, et alia.

The crowd broke and he got a better look at the stranger he now tailed. Or, rather, the back of their head. A well-groomed seeming head, anyway, and it sat atop an expensive outfit. He could practically _smell_ the coin. It was fortunate! Friends in high places were always of interest. Friends in high places were _also_ a convenient excuse to go flinging himself at people whenever he grew bored enough to want for the attention.

Syrillon slipped the waxy paper fan from his sash and kept it as a small cover, obscuring just lower than the bridge of his nose as he wound in an abstract circle to try and get a look at the man. A profile, even, if not his full face--

He slipped to one side of a vendor’s table, a number of colorful drapings of fabric on display. It worked as a curtain, anyway, for his peeping, which was fortunate. He could barely get a picture of him, now; a curved, diplomatic nose and keen eyes. He lingered at the book trader’s table--the least interesting, in Syrillon’s own opinion, when not-quite-legal sales were being made here, of all places, in broad daylight. But he supposed one couldn’t always be both _rich_ and _have a personality._

“Pardon me,” the vendor to Syrillon’s side spoke up, terse, and with a heavy lilt, “buy something or move along, please.” Flashing a quick, mildly embarrassed smile, he tossed them a gold coin's worth of apology and plucked up a robin’s egg-coloured silken handkerchief. Perhaps he could play it off as a birthday gift; it would be easier than admitting to his sponsor exactly how quickly he’d skulked off after being ordered to stay put. Stuffing the purchase into his jacket pocket, he loitered for a few more fleeting moments. Luckily enough, the target of his staring was moving along.

It was jewelry, this time, and though this new subject for skimming was an improvement from books, the vendor was not so promising. Syrillon had given their wares a once-over on their first sweep through; most of it seemed overpriced, as was the custom, and of poor quality. Still, it was flashy and _gaudy_ as anything. A bit bolder, Syrillon paused a few strides closer this time. He haphazardly attempted to look a bit less shifty-looking.

He kept his fan up, even as he drew in to look as though he, too, was perusing the array of silver and gold chains. He spared his ‘target’ a glance, but the man hardly seemed to notice. He had one hand curled at his chin, forefinger pressed up to make a cross-section of his lips whilst he puzzled over the assorted jewelry.

Putting on his most polite smile, Syrillon pointed to a bracelet within his view. It seemed of a decent quality, compared to the others. Simple, though. Not quite so flashy; moreso awaiting the addition of some other charm or bauble to make it a showpiece.

“That one’d look nice on you, I think,” he spoke up, glancing between the item and the man to whom he spoke. “Good value, too. Would hate for you to be swindled.” Those keen eyes were on him, now. A striking shade of blue-green, not unlike a few of the pale charms laid out on the vendor’s table. They were narrowed, but not so much in a threatening way.

“I’d be a fool to pass up the uninvited advice of a stranger,” the man drawled, politely derisive, “may I ask _why?”_

“Why this?” Syrillon made another gesture to the chain. A small nod. “The loops are thicker, more well-shaped. No market’ll have actually _decent_ material for sale, so you’re better off going for the sturdier ones.” The vendor, hidden in the shade behind their table, sent an offended-looking glance. “The gold I’d leave be. It’s just meant to attract new money. The silver’s good, though. It’d last. Better off finding something strong and making it your own than picking up the most glittery thing you can find that'll break apart soon as you need it.”

“Fortunate for me that you’re handing out free advice, then,” the man hummed, giving an appraising look and a nod as he gingerly picked up the selected chain, “do you always skulk around these markets, or is this simply a coincidence?” The item handed off to the vendor, those eyes fell upon him once more.

“Oh, you know. I skulk as it suits me.”

“And that leery staring? Do you do that as it suits you, as well?” Arms folded over his chest, the man’s tone suddenly felt an inch less pleasant. Syrillon managed a quiet giggle.

“Ah, you caught me. Yes, to answer your question, I do. I’d say it’s not for any nefarious reason, but I that’s something that someone nefarious would say, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

“Right.” Syrillon gave a click of his tongue and set down a few sovereigns for the vendor. Slipping the handkerchief from his pocket, he held it out to receive the chain. Once within his grasp, he folded the soft blue material over top and then into a small little package. He offered it up to the man beside him, tacking on another pleasant smile.

“A… reparation, then. To apologize for the staring.” He didn’t move to take it.

“You probably could have done with an introduction.”

“What, to a _stranger?_ A frightening prospect,” Syrillon drawled, still keeping the gift tight in his grasp, “very well. I’ll weather it.” Bending at the hips, he placed his free hand, splayed, atop his heart and offered a polite bow.

“You can call me Syrillon,” he said, lingering in the position to glance up towards the man, “see? I’m very trustworthy.”

“Evidently.” When the bundle was offered once more, tentative fingers came to grasp it. With his hands now empty, Syrillon allowed his smile to grow. “I apologize if I may seem rude--” the man started, holding the bluish bundle between his hands.

“--oh, please. Never can be too careful. A handsome, roguish elf tailing you through a market? Best be on your guard.” It earned a short laugh and a coyly agreeable hum. That was a pleasant change, at least. Distantly, Syrillon could spot a familiar head of slicked-back brown hair attached to a man now standing at the roadside, scanning the market with an irritable tension.

“Even so, I should introduce myself.” The man volunteered, far warmer now that Syrillon had broken the ice. Fidgety, the elf glanced over the stranger’s shoulder a bit more.

“Truly?” He drawled, a wider grin breaching his expression in his sudden rush, “I think you should save it for next time. Keep things interesting.”

“Quite presumptuous, assuming there’ll _be_ a ‘next time’,” the man accused, a sideway smile crossing his own lips. Syrillon gave him a brief, uncourteous pat to the upper arm.

“There’s always a ‘next time’,” he said, plucky, “count on it.” He brushed past, walking backwards for a few strides so he might send a wave. Then, carefully avoiding stumbling into anyone, he turned to jog back to where he was meant to be waiting all along.


	4. Tevinter - II [AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets cornier. Don't worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Hard Work from the Spirited Away soundtrack is so good.... I've listened to it so many times while writing Syr that now it's just His Song for me.... Also?? A Town With an Ocean View is another good one.... we stan kiki.... and her delivery service

Syrillon kept his head high and his hands clasped behind his back as he walked, carefully relaxed, a pace behind his employer. People moved in waves, their hats and overindulgent accesorizing acting like sea foam. The two of them idled every few steps for a done up has-been-turned-someone-by-cruel-twist-of-fate to trade polite greetings with the Antivan a stride ahead, leaving the elf to stand and look pretty until he was either ignored (which was frequent) and they could move on, or he was introduced and could charm his way into a larger allowance. The latter had only happened once in their hour and half long visit.

“Just for tonight,” came a harsh whisper, pushed out from between party-goers. Syrillon couldn’t help but pick up the voice. _"Please,"_ it said, tight and desperate.  Whomever they spoke to, the reply was lost in the clamour of the crowd. Bubbly wine tinkling in tall flutes, gentle cheers, a far-off bout of polite laughter. Things had yet to grow insular.

“Gabriel, what a pleasant surprise,” the same voice--he knew; clawing and almost harsh, it hung onto the inside of his ears like an insect’s buzzing--it was in front of them, now, and it no longer whispered. A man, done-up enough for Syrillon to pick him out as  _ someone,  _ amongst a sea of dressed-up would-be-someones, came to offer another polite gesture of greeting to his employer. He was draped in maroon vestment. He stepped aside, bringing forth a familiar face.

“This is my son. I don’t believe you two have been formally introduced. Dorian,” the man gestured for the tightly-smiling stranger-but-not to introduce himself. Blue-green eyes lingered on Syrillon for a moment, holding tight to what might’ve been recognition, but he wasn’t outwardly acknowledged. The young man, also clad in maroon, gave his greetings.

“I’ve heard plenty about you,” Gabriel drawled, sounding as business-like (blasé) as ever, “as well as your sponsor. I don’t suppose Gereon will be attending?”

“I’m afraid not,” the older man--the  _ father-- _ interrupted. “He’s not been feeling well.” There was a vague hum. Then, abruptly, the Antivan stepped aside to make a gesture for the elf at his back. Obediently, Syrillon took a half-step forward and put on a practiced smile.

“My everyman, as I was telling you,” Gabriel introduced. Syrillon dipped into a bow, one hand at his abdomen and his eyes firmly set on the pairs of pointed shoes in front of him.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my Lord.” Another beat, then he straightened up. His hands lingered where they were; one flat at his abdomen and the other at his back. He received only a small, polite nod in return: a base courtesy, though any more would probably be considered next to groveling, given their discrepancy in status. And race.

“Halward Pavus,” the man introduced, “and my son, Dorian.” He gestured with an open hand. Syrillon, swallowing his cheekier smile, gave another lingering bow.

“Charmed.”

“I’m sure there are others vying for your attention,” Halward said, politely dismissive, “I will allow you and your  _ everyman  _ to return to the party.”

“I’ll be seeing you later on. We’ve much to discuss.” Gabriel said. Slowly, they drifted back into the sea of party-goers.

-

Syrillon, left alone with two drinks in hand, started to flounder. So long as he looked like he knew what he was doing, no one would approach. It didn’t help the awkward nag in his gut. A cool breeze drifted in from one of the newly opened balcony doors. Gabriel had long since stepped out of the main room to chat business; he had time to squander.

The starlight was bright, outside the city. The villa gardens lay sprawled out before the balustrade, coloured in blacks and greys with the shroud of evening. The yellowed light of the party barely traipsed past the doors. It seemed deserted, at first glance.

Tucked away in a darker corner was a nearly-familiar silhouette. Upon a tentative approach, Syrillon could make them out. Yes, that was him: draped in crimson and leaning onto the balcony railing with his head in his hands. If the silent argument he’d pretended not to notice some five minutes earlier was any sign, his prospective friend could use a drink.

The glass met the stone railing with a delicate  _ tink  _ and it was enough to make Dorian look up from his quiet distress, visibly startled. Syrillon faced the party, his back to the manicured land below. He took a tiny sip of the sweet, sparkling wine and followed it with a quietly mortified chuckle.

“Wow,” he murmured, choking it down before sparing the other man a passing glance, “tastes terrible. Have you tried this stuff?  _ Maker--”  _ pinching the curved bridge of his nose, Dorian managed a tight, wincing smile and straightened up.

“Quite,” he replied, dismissive, already moving to continue, “did you need something?”

“You looked thirsty.” Syrillon said simply, jerking his head towards the offering which sat, tinkling gently, between them. Dorian let out a vague hum and eyed the drink with a gloomy air, though his expression was purposely more impassive. He folded his arms over his chest and the delicate fabric of his clothing creased disobediently. The stark red was only an implication, given the meager light.

“I suppose it’s that obvious?”

“That, or I saw the little spat. Whichever makes you feel better.”

“Not the latter, certainly,” Dorian spoke at a whisper, now, and his fingers lingered at the base of the offered glass. He didn’t move to take a drink, yet.

“Are you... alright?” Syrillon asked hesitantly. Dorian glanced up at him more fully, eyes narrowed in that  _ keen  _ sort of way that seemed to be characteristic. As if he was puzzling over him, trying to work out just what the meaning of such a question--a polite, friendly question--could be. Carefully, he rephrased: “is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“A new life, maybe. Just… scrap this whole place and start over, while you’re at it.” It was a stiffly facetious reply, bittersweet and  _ hurt  _ in how his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. Quickly, his hand took hold of the wine glass and he took a long drink, as if to cut himself off. He chased it with a wry, manic laugh that was short-lived enough to seem involuntary.

“Ah,” Syrillon murmured, barely giving it a voice. He looked back towards the party, providing the solace of some small privacy as the young man swiped fitfully at his foggy eyes.

“Maker, these parties will be the death of me,” he whispered, leaning both hands onto the stone railing and squeezing his eyes shut. Syrillon, sparing him a brief glance, found a frown sprouting on his own lips, as well. Before he could help himself, he laid a gentle hand at the young man’s shoulder. Dorian’s eyes on the meager contact made him shrink back an inch, tiptoeing the line of courtesy. There was a frowny quirk to him as soon as the hand left, however.

“Stay right here,” the elf instructed, “I’ll be right back, alright?” He flashed him a gleaming smile, like a reminder, and abandoned his drink at the balcony. He returned to the warmth of the party with jogging steps. He weaved between people as courteously as he could until his goal fell within sight. Letting out a pleased sound for himself, he plucked it up and returned to the balcony as quick as he’d left.

Dorian still lingered there, his drink a bit more empty than before his swift absence. Syirllon laid a gentle hand at the young man’s back, alerting him to where he moved, and slipped to the other side of him. A lute under one arm, the elf hopped up to sit on the balcony railing, his back once again facing the gardens.

Dorian, one hand on his hip and the other at the balustrade, had barely a ghost of a smile to his lips as he watched the elf adjust his seat. There was a pinch of amusement to his questioning gaze as long, quick fingers plucked out the start of a melody. Then, as it carried on, it became more regular. Syrillon started to whistle along with it and the two songs found one another somewhere along the line.

“Better than the stuff they’re playing inside,” Syrillon said, interrupting his place in the melody, “I take tips or rapturous applause, take your pick.” The melody continued, looping itself in a circle to then repeat in a winding pattern. It continued on for what felt like some time, even if it had only been a few scant minutes' length. Dorian pinched the stem of the glass in his grip and drained it, weary eyes on the far-away gardens.

“I’m afraid I haven’t a coin on me,” Dorian replied, though it was unclear just how true it was. He set his glass back down, eyes refocusing on the elf trying so earnestly to lighten his mood. Taking a half-step away, he instead dipped to offer his hand, “but I can offer a dance?”

“Why, I thought you’d never ask,” Syrillon tittered, hopping out of his temporary spot and setting aside the pilfered instrument. He took the man’s hand and laid his own at his shoulder, keeping the contact as businesslike as possible. Leaving the altus to make the moves. It was safer that way, as always. They moved with practiced steps and Syrillon picked up his whistling again.

“I must admit, I wasn’t entirely convinced when you said there would be a  _ next time,” _ Dorian drawled, and Syrillon interrupted their song to let out a hum of wry agreement.

“Disappointed?” He asked, coy.

“Hardly.” The elf spun out, held by the delicate grip of one hand. Once his feet laid flat, however, he used that hand to tug the other man in more harshly. His other hand landed at Dorian’s lower back, only a tentative move towards…  _ something.  _ Whatever it was he headed blindly in favour of. From what little he could make out of the altus’s careful mask, he was enjoying himself. That was good, anyway. Better than quiet rage!

“Careful; any more enthusiastic and I might just start thinking we’re friends.” There was a throaty chuckle and fingers pressed, gentle, into the material at his shoulder.


	5. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during Chapter 6 of A Sure Thing, after Haven is smushed and the Inquisition is going to Skyhold.

“Your trousers dry yet?” Lavellan’s chapped lips curled up in a sideways smile.

“No,” The Iron Bull grunted in reply, letting his long legs stretch out to where they almost poked the embers of the campfire. “Let’s hope I don’t get sick.”

“You daft?” Sera giggled, holding a cup of hot ale between her smallish, grubby hands, “can’t get sick from wet legs.” Lavellan’s brows furrowed.

“You can get sick from wet hair, but not wet legs?” He asked, disbelief hanging from each lilted word.

“You do not get sick from wet hair,” Cassandra went to supply, not looking up from the book laid out in her lap. One of her (comparatively shorter) legs was poking out towards the fire from where she sat, back against their makeshift sitting place, to keep warm.

“It’s because your head is hotter than your legs.” Varric said, stoking the fire across from them and pouring out another round of tea into little wooden cups. Sera drained her ale and held out her cup for more.

“But it’s more surface area.” Lavellan pointed out, matter-of-fact.

“But it’s not hotter.” Varric countered.

“Whatever,” Lavellan dismissed abruptly, taking a pull of his strong tea. His layers of blankets trapped the heat too readily, so he slipped them off to rest at his hips. The change welcomed in a new wave of cold air that made him shiver. "You still owe me two gold, Varric."

"Do I?" The dwarf croaked, feigning surprise, "now, that doesn't sound right."

"Alas," Lavellan made a gesture for the qunari sprawled out by the fire, "he caught the hare. Wet his pants, too. That's two gold."

"That's not what wetting yourself means," Varric said, playing the stickler, "I'll give you one. Take it or leave it."

"Fine by me. I don't play for the money, anyway." Lavellan drained his little wood cup and did a mental head-count, to which he'd grown accustomed. Five around the fire; one of them sleeping. Blackwall was with the mounts, three were asleep in the tents, Cullen stayed working in distant candlelight at their temporary war table. Where Leliana was, he hadn't any idea, but that meant she was accounted for.

"Starting to think you might be a sadist, there, Boots." Varric doled out their drinks and then moved to his bundled pack, from whence he removed a leather coinpurse. He tossed a single gold coin to their Herald, who caught it in a fist. Lavellan exchanged the payment for a beaming smile.

"I'll never tell." He drawled. Cassandra, pushing down a yawn, shut her book and climbed to her feet.

"I'm retiring for the evening," she said, calling the earlier conversation closed, "don't let the dwarf wake me, come morning." Lavellan gave a nod of affirmative just as said dwarf let out an offended sound.

"It's not my fault you weren't waking up!" He insisted, "some soldier you are. I call and I call and you sleep through it; someday you'll sleep through something actually important." The Seeker ignored him for favour of slipping into one of the ragged tents. Sera climbed to her feet, as well, finishing off what must've been her fifth cup of hot ale. Abhorrent stuff, but she hardly blinked at the taste.

"I'm going, too," she said, a yawn on her lips, "found m'self a bed warmer." There was a flair of cocky bragging to her tone as she strut away towards where the labourers slept in tight-packed tents. Somewhere in the maze of slumbering people, there was her signature giggle.

The people still huddled around the fire grew quiet. Then, after a few minutes, the silence was broken by a long snore. Varric, as an afterthought, shoved Bull's feet away from where they prodded precariously at the perimeter of the flames. The qunari barely stirred at the sensation. More or less alone, the dwarf let his teasing come out. He wandered to where Lavellan sat upon a crate, taking up the most recently-vacated spot at his side.

"So," he drawled, "how's my favourite hero of everything doing?"

"Sick of walking."

"Oh, tell me about it. Guys like me aren't built for it. You're lucky you have long legs."

"If you ask nice enough, someone might carry you. You never know." Lavellan let his hands hover, palms out, within the grasp of the fire's heat.

"Hey, Boots, you think you could carry me the next time we have to walk for ten-something hours?"

"No, sorry." Lavellan rubbed his palms together to the sound of Varric's played up disappointment.

"Well, I'm turning in for the night. Might wanna put this out before you go, in case it catches." Varric rose from his spot, giving the Herald a rousing pat on the upper arm. Said elf let out a vague hum in reply, eyes on the dancing flames as the last of his wakened company left him. The camp stayed mutely quiet around him; the occasional distant laugh, the call of a bird, the shuffling of a horse or pack mule. He leaned back on his hands, watching as the fire spat little embers out, a number of them spiraling up to join the stars. The smoke of the fire was barely visible against the black sky.

There was a shifting on the ground near the fire. Dorian, who had long since fallen asleep, still hugged a book tight in his arms. Possessed of the need to keep it from falling to the fire in his tossing and turning, maybe. Rubbing one hand at his tired eyes, Lavellan stood from his makeshift seat. The mage slumbered under the cover of only his own robes; lain out over cold, hard ground. The elf crouched at his side, carefully working the tome out of his grip. He took the thicker of his shed blankets to lay atop the man, then bundled up the other to tuck beneath his head. He ran his fingers over his messed hair before giving his head a barely-there pat.

"Sleep well." He bode in a whisper.


	6. Satinalia [AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “it’d be like one of your smutty romance novels. Strapping criminal kidnaps the love interest, turns out to be an alright guy, happy ever after.”/“No--just imagine it. Me, as the dashing, morally-grey leader to a rag-tag group of misfits.”
> 
> Y'all gotta watch the 90s Count of Monte Cristo...... it's my fave movie frfr
> 
> also YES there's gonna be an even CHEESIER chapter to follow this. That is the way

Where the confetti came from was anyone's guess. It rained down in the streets like colorful, shining snow; precipitating upon a city which had hardly ever seen such weather in more normal, un-merry circumstances. There were no carriages to fill the cobbled roads. Rather, people in clusters moved this way and that, not a single bare face in sight. The more uptight older gentlemen and women had long since locked themselves inside their homes at the end of the work-day, shutting out the joyous rabble and leaving the ne'er-do-well youths to party and drink in masks and gaudy, colorful garb. Orlesian-style half-masks, as well as full-faced visages of varying expression were common. As was the stink of ale or wine building behind the plaster and paint.

A young man in a more Orlesian style mask--so he might drink without removing it--stood under the stoop of a building which looked out on the revelry and chaos not three steps away. Classmates in matching-coloured robes passed in a gaggle, chattering and jeering amongst themselves. Maevaris was taking too long; he would miss out on all the partying, at this rate! Dorian took another long pull from the borrowed flask before tucking it into an inside pocket, believing that it might let him pace himself. Unlikely.

The streets around him were lit up in yellow-orange lantern light. In the black sky above, occasional fireworks made up for the lack of starlight. They ignited in blues, reds and greens; then, following their _tat-tat-tat,_ they disappeared. Waxy paper lanterns tethered to apartment balconies and local landmarks by twine contributed to the light pollution. It was hot, this side of the city. Almost enough to make him forget just how late it was in the year. Any frost coating the streets and buildings had long since been wicked away.

She _probably_ found someone to fool around with, hadn't she? It happened last year. Dorian let out a sigh; he'd need to piss soon and she was already twenty minutes late. Would he _really_ do this for a second year in a row? Stand around, lament, then complain later on when it was _his_ fault he'd tried to be a good friend? Why bother doing so when it was one-sided? He should just find his own fun.

Although, it seemed, fun was intent upon finding him, instead. Eyes caught his own, somewhere in the nebulous crowd. Dark, inviting eyes surrounded by an ivory-coloured mask. There was a wink, then stubbled cheeks creased with a come-hither smile. Perhaps that would do. Dorian stepped down from his minor stage and slipped through wherever he could. That ivory mask had moved, now, and he was finding himself turned-around. There was a glimpse of it farther along. His target, watching him, slipped farther along the street. Taking a nip of the teasing bait, the altus followed. Little coy smiles and further flashes of pearlescent teeth had him moving more quickly. As if to say: _catch me if you can, and perhaps you'll earn a name._

The streets, seemingly dropping off, grew suddenly abandoned. One corner turned, and now he was alone. Anxiety crept on the back of his neck. There was that figure, then--muscular and tall, accompanied by an ivory mask--slipping inside the back door of a building. Dorian's steps faltered. This didn't feel right. He could chase after a stranger in a warmer, more populated tavern. He'd leave this one be. Before he could turn back the way he'd come, there was a small tap to his arm. His body froze up on its own accord, like a silent spell, and a cloth covering obscured his vision.

Heart racing, bile rose in his throat as unseen, unheard people lifted him somewhere--a cart, perhaps?--and the clamour of the festival faded away. He tried to open his mouth--to let out any sound--but nothing came. The warmth and world he'd come from was replaced by a cool clamminess he could feel where his skin was bare and a quiet, intermittent dripping. He could smell mildew through what might've been a bag on his head. He was placed back on his feet and herded harshly against something rough and rocky. There was something near him--an arm, or a person--and then he could move again.

He struggled weakly against something which held his arms and legs in place, growing woozy. Was he about to die? This must've been the sort of _depraved underbelly_ people felt the need to warn him about. To scare such a well-to-do young man out of seeing anything of the world, less he be harmed. He'd scoffed at it, then, but this felt a bit too like a nightmare come to life to do so at present. The bag removed from his head, it made little difference. There was hardly any light to where he now stood, aside from that at a far entrance. The distant streetlamp glow lit the arch doorway. In the darkness, something caught his eye. As he adjusted to it, he found he could make out figures. One, two, maybe more. Footsteps in the dark drew closer to him and he worked to reel in the fear on the back of his neck. He would be fine! And if he wasn't?

Well, perhaps he could at least do _something_ to make Halward proud.

"Dorian Pavus?" A voice echoed in the darkness. The altus grit his teeth and refused to reply. His look of determination was lost in the low light. Distantly, there was another quiet puttering as a firework detonated in the distant sky.

"He's the one, sir," someone else spoke for him, "I'd put my life on it."

"You will if you're wrong." The first voice shot back. There was a quiet hissing in the dark. Then, a small fire roared to life, shocking the young man's eyes into squeezing shut for only a few moments. Once he opened them, the shocking outline of a masked face made him startle. It was a grotesque, camp depiction of a snarling dog. Where its eyes should have been were holes, through which more human-like ones peered. Unlike the ivory-masked stranger, this one's gaze was a different challenge. _Fear me,_ perhaps, or, _give me what I want._ The latter was probably more accurate, if only by an inch.

"Terribly sorry for being a poor host." The hound said, too casual, "criminals, y'see. No manners."

"Oh, certainly," Dorian replied, his voice light and high with an edge of fear, though he covered it with his jab, "leave me to run off and I'll consider it making amends."

"Soon enough. You're 'ere for an important reason; we're meant to kill ya, and lettin' you run off would probably not count in our favour." Dorian's hands gripped into fists, he fought to not waver. It would be a ransom, wouldn't it? Maker, he was fucked--"now, before you get all wilty," he continued, one hand coming up nearer to the altus's face. He winced away, though it didn't stop it from pinching the mask off his face and lifting it to sit atop his hair. Surprisingly polite, given he was about to be murdered. "I wouldn't be speaking with ye if I was going to do that. We've a few options."

"I'm firmly in favour of whichever one is the least deadly."

"Cross off _murder,_ then. Good to know." The hound-faced man let out a long sigh. "To make a very long, very _annoying_ story short: your pa has enemies. One of them hired _us_ to make some big show of things--I won't let you in on the details, _but_ killing you was part of the deal. Short-sighted, you ask me. Rookie move. Could've sent your pa a finger, claimed it yours, meanwhile you're safe and sound, snug as a bug in a rug, and you're _laughin'!_ Anyway." The man's gestures were clear, even when the hand holding the fire wandered away from the other. "Guy's a bad hire. We've already got two on his head, one from back-then and one coming in soon enough. Where _you_ come in is to be, ah... I don't know what you'd call it. The straw, maybe."

"Pardon?" Dorian asked, panic and genuine misunderstanding both clouding his mind.

"We're money-hungry little bastards. _We,"_ he gestured to himself, "need _you,"_ a jab to Dorian's chest, now, "to do us a favour."

"I suppose I don't have a say."

"Not unless you want us t' go through with the original orders; kill Dorian Pavus, son of Halward Pavus, attach weights, drop into the ocean. You seem clever enough. It'd be a stunning waste."

"This favour?"

"Find a way to ruin things for our client. Make him a target; people pay us to off him and his friends, we get more money _and_ we get rid of the little weasel. And let's not forget that _you_ get to live. Yay."

"Why?" Dorian asked, tentative, "surely, this isn't out of the kindness and generosity of your heart. What, aside from money, is there for you to gain? And what's to stop me having you all killed?"

"Well, for _one,_ killing us would be very rude. Second, you can feel free to try it. Many have. Alas, here we are, not-dead. Now, as for our motivation," the hound stepped in closer, his voice a low, hollow murmur behind his plaster mask, "a few reasons. Guy’s an ass, I’m trying to preserve my good karma _and_ my immortal soul, _and_ I think it would be a _great_ practical joke. So. All you’ve got to do is take this letter to your father. I’m sure things’ll figure themselves out from there.” There was a gentle flapping of parchment as said letter waved in front of his face.

“That’s it?” Dorian drawled, “certainly lacks a little… panache.” Perhaps it was foolish to think _aren’t I worth more?_ When he was very likely on the verge of being bled out like an animal.

“It has plenty of panache. Are you forgetting that you’ve been kidnapped?” The stranger’s voice heightened with his incredulity. It was almost comical. “Look, just go along with it. Easier for you, better for me, worse for the people trying to do us both dirty.”

“Very well,” the altus murmured, trying to agree himself back out of his restraints. “I’ll do it. Give me the letter and I’ll be on my way.” There were a few chiding tuts from behind the plaster mask.

“Not so fast. Got some panache to work out, first.” The fire extinguished with a clap against it and Dorian was left in blinding darkness once more. There were whispers--none of them Common; he couldn’t make out a single word--and a number of pairs of footsteps headed each way. The quiet clamour gave way to real silence and, for a moment, Dorian wondered if it was a prank. If he’d been left there.

“Now, fair warning, if ye try anything, I’ll have to stab you.” The hound was still there, toiling to his right. “And I’d rather not. It would ruin the festival atmosphere.” The binds on his arms loosened and, though there was a split-second urge to run away as fast as he could, Dorian stood tensely still. He didn’t even know what lay in the darkness. Being murdered _after_ tripping over something and sopping up the damp was, upon comparison, a much more embarrassing way to die.

“Oh, Maker forbid.” He murmured, startled when a heavy arm clapped around his shoulders. The hound-man, herded in too close at his left side, gripped his right shoulder tight enough to pinch. He was walked forward a few steps, blind from the darkness, but he hadn’t any chance to let his paces falter. A few more confident strides (more from his puppetmaster) and there was a noticeable shift in the air. The muggy, damp feeling was gone and replaced with the familiar crisp, chilly world he’d come from. The blanket of darkness persisted, however.

Distantly, there was a streetlamp. The walk towards it and the cold air burning his lungs helped to distract him from the presence at his side that he might’ve called welcoming, had it not come with a lazy threat. It was a tense warmth despite the late-season chill and, had his grip felt less like he was being punished as a misbehaving child, Dorian might’ve fooled himself into the quiet, only moderately-threatening presence. It helped that the man seemed too lazy to, or else too against, harming him. It also helped that he smelled more like some stuffy upperclassman than a common criminal. Or, perhaps, he’d not been pacing his drink as much as he should have.

Another firework lit up the night sky, this time in shades of crimson.

“When we get back into the festival,” the hound spoke, his voice low and even, “you let me do the talking. Just go along with it.” The altus made a quiet, affirmative sound, though he figured it didn’t matter either way. One streetlamp and they’d turned a corner to see another row. The very edge of the festival bled out at the end of the street in the form of yellow light and distant revelry. The fireworks were visible, just behind the crowns of the buildings.

It was just the same as he’d left it. As if on repeat, they passed by the same group of college students in a gaggle and slipped through the dense, hot crowds. Dorian was walked up to the same doorway he’d been idling at sometime earlier and he realized, with some fear, that they’d been watching him for longer than he thought.

“Now, what’s _this?”_ Came a familiar drawl, “I must’ve taken too long. You ran off and found company. Introduce me.” Mae, a new drink in hand, came to lean on the handrail which sat at the altus’s hip-height.

“I’m just dropping him off,” the hound said, speaking before Dorian could get in on the lie, “are you friends with him?”

“Now, don’t run off too quickly. It’ll be easier to gossip about you if there’s a name to match.” She took a coy sip of her drink and Dorian almost wanted to dive into the bushes at his back. The hound let out a chuckle.

“Lavellan. Call on me as you like.” He offered a short, polite bow, “this young man has a terrible survival instinct. Nearly stabbed to death in an alley.” His hand landed on Dorian’s shoulder once more. The altus put on a tight-lipped smile. Mae’s eyes widened an inch behind her mask.

“What, really? Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Even Dorian could tell it was unconvincing.

“They’re all dealt with, if that’s a concern. Try not to wander too far on your own, you two. Who knows what sort of people lurk about.” Though the young man had avoided looking in his captive’s direction, he couldn’t help but notice pointier, elven ears now that they stood in brighter light. Plain, dark clothes, tied-up whitish hair. It might’ve been enough detail to ask around with.

“Well, thank you for helping him. Certainly uncalled for.” There was something to the quirk of her head, or else her stance. Did she see through the thin façade?

“I’m a philanthropist.” The hound replied. Then, turning, his one hand squeezed at Dorian’s arm. His other laid out at his sternum and the altus froze, tense, whilst the man leaned in towards his ear. There was a whisper of, _“don’t spill the beans, magic-boy,”--_ a final threat--before the hound drew away with a very obvious wink.

“Pleasure meeting you, ma’am,” he said, side-stepping away and down one of the stairs.

“Maevaris. The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you.”

“Enjoy the festival, you two.” The hound--Lavellan?--bode, offering a final wave before disappearing into the crowd. Dorian absent-mindedly touched where that hand had pressed into his chest. There was a piece of folded parchment tucked into his robe not an inch from it; one that hadn’t been there minutes earlier.

“Alright, come on. How’d you get so lucky?” Mae asked; a harsh, excited whisper, “you’re going to see him again, right?” Dorian rubbed at his eyes, letting out a weak sigh. As an afterthought, he pulled down his mask that had been seated so nicely atop his head.

“Maybe.” _Not if I can help it--_


	7. Satinalia II [AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heheh

The sky, and everything within its reach, was painted with a soft red-orange haze. It crept inside the altus’s bedroom, stubborn, despite his curtains being long since drawn together. He perched at his desk, tomes lain out and half-filled parchment lost between pages. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, fingers messing his fringe in the just the way it had already been ruined a number of times.

A gentle breeze passed outside his propped-open window, ruffling the drapes and peeking just a bit more dying light. It stirred the young man from his work-induced reverie and, indulging in a long stretch, he dropped his ink pen. Dull black stains coated his fingers which he pressed, massaging, into his eyes.

They stung dully from the strain of his hours’ reading. The light of his room grew dimmer without his realizing and, blinking away a tired ache, he wondered just how long he’d been studying. Halward hadn’t come by to pick on him following their spat, so there was no telling. His empty stomach turned. He was certain he’d missed dinner, already. Perhaps he could sneak to the kitchen and steal some fruit before retiring.

First, he rose from his seat and trailed to his bureau. He lit a little waxy stub of a candle and hooked his finger beneath its holder to carry towards his bedside. It met the wood surface with a gentle sound. When he looked up, however, he startled. It was a gasp, more than a yelp. There was a silhouette, too defined to not be real. In moments, he recognized it to be a man, leaning quite casually with one arm propped up on the corner of his bed frame. The bed itself laid between them, the door on Dorian’s side. If he ran, he could make it out.

“Do be good and don’t squeal, if ye please. Wouldn’t end well for either of us.” That familiar mask; a snarling dog, painted in various deep colours, hollowed the request. Dorian, swallowing his climbing fear, took a careful half-step back.

“Why--” he started, his voice too near a whisper. He swallowed once more, then tried it again. “Why are you here? I did exactly what you told me.”

“Well, that is, actually, why I’m here. I was so impressed, y’see, and I wanted to have a chat. See if we could work something out. Not here to hurt you; promise.” The man put his hands up in his defense. Then, with careful moves, he slipped out of the black jacket on his shoulders. There was a flash of a blade, somewhere in one of the folds, but he hung it by its collar on one corner of the bedframe and left it alone.

“If you want me to trust that, you’ll need to do more.”

“Like?”

“The mask?”

“Oh, right.” The man, startled into movement, brought his hands to his head. He stripped himself off the odd visage and then hung that, too. The smile he put on was more breezy and polite than Dorian would’ve expected, had he thought there would be one at all. “Shall I keep stripping down, or is that enough?”

“That’s fine for now.” Dorian replied, stiff and quick, and he fought the urge to take another small step back. “You said you wanted to chat, so let’s chat.”

“Quite.” The man, quietly clearing his throat, gave the bed a testing push with his hand. Then, he settled onto the edge, his back to the altus. Adrenaline threatened to climb. Just a bit longer and Dorian could be out the door. Or hitting him over the head--

“I wanted to ask for your help again,” he said, flopping onto his back. A bit undignified, given he was dressed like some sort of shadowy assassin. “You’re clever. Know the way people work; especially the big boys. And I like your attitude, you’re not a li’l weasel.”

“How complementary.” Dorian murmured.

“I want you as an ally.”

“Do you normally break and enter to make these sort of proposals?”

“I was going to run into you at the market, actually, but you’ve not made it all that easy. It’s like you never _do_ anything aside from going class, then coming home and doing… _whatever_ rich boys like you do with your time.” Dorian let out a dry hum in reply, a hollow ache in his chest. How was it that a _criminal--_ a _nightmare;_ someone who made him fear for his life--was the only person thus far who seemed to notice how his life had dulled? How his schedule had been whittled down to only the barest necessity to prevent him from any sort of _debauched_ activity. As if a visit to the market could be so incriminating!

“Yes, well, I’ll have to take that up with my day planner.” He replied, a harsh whisper. The stranger tilted his head, lazy, and pointed a finger in his direction.

“Mm. You alright?”

“You haven’t exactly earned the right to ask that sort of thing.” The finger turned to an open hand, which waved at him in a dismissive manner. He rolled over onto his side, careful to keep his boots off the bed. Another uniquely thoughtful thing, given he was already trespassing.

“So, what’s the price for your consultation? Trust-fund heir like you’s not got much use for gold, I’m sure.”

“What exactly does _consultation_ entail?” Dorian folded his arms tight over his chest, fighting not to fidget. It would give the wrong impression. He was, of course, worried enough about being stabbed. But he wasn’t bound and wasn’t threatened (yet), so why let him know?

“I’ll send you letters, sometimes. Ask for advice. Maybe see you in person, depending on how boring your life is at that moment.”

“And in return?”

“Whatever your little heart can dream up. Within reason, obviously. I’m a criminal, not a god.” The elf--Lavellan, was it?--looked up at him from behind dark lashes, pressuring him into deciding his terms right then and there.

“How long have you been in here?” Dorian asked instead.

“A couple minutes. Could be lying, though.”

“If you can sneak in without being noticed, can you sneak _me_ out?” Lavellan’s head quirked and an interested smile crossed his lips.

“That’s what you want? I can show you how to sneak out, easy.”

“No, I want someone else to do it. For deniability.” The elf put one hand up in his defense, his other arm staying busy propping himself up.

“Alright, I can do that. How often?”

“Whenever I ask. Late evening, most likely, and I doubt it’ll be more than twice in a week.”

“Sure. I can keep in touch. Anything else?”

“I suppose asking to be snuck back in again is pushing my luck?”

“Hardly. You can get snuck out, given a ride to where you’re going, then back here when you’re ready. Snuck in, tucked into bed and then you get a nice little goodnight story. Sounds good?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Then you’ve got a deal, Lord Pavus,” a gloved hand extended out for him to shake. Dorian, suddenly more hesitant, looked between it and the elf’s expression, which fell into a childish frown. “Still don’t trust me?”

“You can’t seriously be _bitter_ about that--”

“No, no, it’s _fine,”_ Lavellan drawled, rolling himself across the bed. He came to stand on the same side as the altus, though still he kept a meager distance. “Just breakin’ me heart, that’s all. A great start to this partnership; can't shake my hand but you expect to put your life in my 'ands. Don’t mind me, absolutely crestfallen.”

“Is this going to be a regular thing?”

“If you don't put on your big-boy trousers.” He held out his hand again, looking an inch more stern. Dorian, quickly tired of the game, grasped his gloved hand and gave it a shake. Lavellan, a grin sprouting, drew back.

“Pleasure doing business. I’ll be in touch.”


	8. Private (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sup
> 
> this was written for a different thing but im putting it here bc it fits. enjoy i guess

“Good morning, dove.” Syrillon greeted, sweeping by Dorian’s alcove. He set down a small stack of books upon his work-desk and danced a step closer, pressing a kiss to the mage’s temple. A hand ghosted at Dorian’s hip, almost needy. “Brought what you asked. Josephine sent along something on… trading routes, or whatever. Don’t remember.”

“You’re a life-saver, Amatus.” A sweetly-smiling kiss pecked to Syrillon’s lips, causing a proud expression to bloom.

“Always happy to help. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Dorian looked aside, the wheels turning. He set down the tome in his hands and, bringing one to the elf’s upper arm, he herded him in the direction of one of the exit doors.

“Yes, actually, there is  _ one  _ thing.”

“Ah, how vague. I’m shaking in my boots.”

“As you should.” Dorian, one hand still holding gently to Syrillon’s arm, led the way into a deserted off-shoot hallway. Then, towards an entirely empty stairwell. It was winding and only large enough for one person to come up at a time. Just before the first step, Dorian’s hand moved, pressing instead into Syrillon’s chest. He gave him a brief push, pressing him up against the stone wall at the entrance to the stairs.

“This is…?” Syrillon asked, expectant, though still faintly smiling.

“A thank-you. And payment, for all the inappropriate dreams you’ve been causing me of late.” Dorian dropped carefully to his knees and Syrillon, giving a hard swallow, barely let out a breathy laugh.

“I see.” Ring-covered hands ran, splayed, in the area of the elf’s hips, thighs and lower abdomen. Appraising, they felt through his layers of cloth and leather.

“May I?” Dorian asked, canting his head to one side. Syrillon, eyes glued to him and those wandering hands, gave a short nod. With permission, they undid the lacing of his trousers and searched out that prone form beneath the fabric of his smallclothes. Dorian’s hands were cool and his rings colder, working an involuntary gasp past the elf’s lips. His hips jolted, barely, but he did his best to remain in place.

Dorian’s one hand held his half-hard cock, the other landing at Syrillon’s hip. Near immediately, his lips found the head and enclosed around it. A weak sound escaped the elf’s lips and his head fell back, barely bumping against the stone. He bit into his lower lip to help restrain the sounds which echoed so freely through the small walkway and, summoning the strength, he looked down.

Dorian’s eyes were piercing and wide, looking up at him, and it took a hand over his mouth to keep a more depraved sound at bay. He was taken in about halfway now, in and out, brushing along the warm and slick path to the back of the mage’s throat. He looked away to focus on taking the length and Syrillon found he could finally breathe. His hand slipped down from his mouth and wound tight in the material of his shirt instead, teeth still clamped tight on the inside of his lip.

The stairwell was filled with the obscene, wet sound of slick skin sliding against skin. The hands would switch out now and then, like a practiced dance, and Syrillon might’ve given more praise if he wasn’t afraid of every single sound which would pass his lips if he allowed them open that long. So, when Dorian tilted his head and took him to the hilt, hot breath fanning against the base of the elf’s groin, Syrillon settled for running an affectionate hand through his hair, instead.

Dorian leaned into the fingers messing his hair and took a pause from his ministrations to catch his breath, a thin string of saliva still connecting his blushed lips to the red-swollen head of the elf’s cock. He swallowed thickly, breaths coming in as soft pants, and he brought one hand back to squeeze the base of it.

“You should see yourself.” The mage whispered, goading.

“Fuck.” Syrillon scoffed, partway to a laugh and wholly breathless. Something entirely garbled, swallowed in another quiet keen, was a string of honest compliments, some elvish, some common and some other from other pieces he'd picked up.  He whispered it, the words slipping off his tongue and past his teeth. His head fell back against the stone again and he tried to catch his breath.

“I’m going to assume that was entirely depraved.” Dorian replied, cutting off any reply as he took Syrillon’s cock back into his mouth once more. Letting out a quiet groan, a shaky breath had the elf looking back down at him. His hand came to rest at the mage’s cheek, feeling it hollow and then bulge with the continued in-and-out movement. He gripped his jaw more fully, then, and the rough pad of his thumb traced over the barely-stubbled surface of Dorian’s cheek.

Taking a bit more leeway, Syrillon let his hips move in time to the already pre-established rhythm. Not so much as to be forceful, it became less like being sucked off and more like fucking the mage’s mouth. He kept his hand firmly at his jaw, tender, and watched the man with nothing less than enraptured awe as he continued to work the cock with his tongue and cheeks.

_ “Eu te amo,”  _ he said in a ragged gasp, “you’re too good to me.” Hands squeezing at Syrillon’s thighs, Dorian shuffled back on his knees until he was the one up against the wall. One hand fell, pressing into the gap of thinner fabric over his groin, allowing Syrillon to take more control over it all.

He laid his hand more at Dorian’s chin, thumb still brushing in gentle lines, more of a contrast, now, to how he moved entirely alone. Dorian’s head was a scant inch from bumping the stone and it would, should he push just a bit harder. Still, he kept things gentle. Commandeering, rhythmic and pushing… but gentle.

“Touch yourself.” Syrillon said in a whispered gasp, a lustful command. Dorian groaned, the sound vibrating around his cock and drawing a similar sound from the other man. One hand still pressed in at Syrillon’s thigh, the other freeing the mage’s erection from thin fustian velvet. He gave it a squeeze and a few tugs and Syrillon watched, entranced.

His rhythm must’ve faltered, because the hand which had been at his thigh now slid to his backside, taking a squeezing handful, and forced the elf’s hips closer. Dorian took him all the way in, needy and wanting, and stayed there for a lingering moment. Syrillon propped his hands on the wall far above Dorian’s head and let his head hand, schooling his breaths while tongue and throat squeezed and sucked around his already throbbing erection.

Dorian let out another low moan around him and it drew a gasp. The hand at his backside let up and Syrillon was free to slide back out once more, this time a pooling of saliva coming with it. When Dorian took him back in, the excess dribbled down his chin and onto the cool stone floor.

Those blue-green eyes were back on him again, and Syrillon, heart thrumming with a mix of perverse excitement and honest  _ love  _ huddled in his own throat, ran rakish fingers through the mage’s already messed hair. He wound his fingers in a gentle fistful, his other hand cradling Dorian’s jaw.

“I’m gonna cum,” he hissed, grip tightening. Another perverse sound met the air and, given a few more pumps, his cock started to give final twitches. Then, fast as was manageable, Dorian took him all the way to the back of his throat once more. Syrillon’s forehead pressed into the ragged stone, eyes squeezed shut and jaw lain open in a silent cry. The mage took and took, the warmth and the pressure of a waiting mouth helping to ride out his climax. There was another moan to vibrate around his now sensitive cock and he hissed more in surprise than enjoyment.

Dorian released him, gasping for air, and Syrillon dropped to his knees opposite him. The mage pressed his own head back into the wall as his swift-moving hand brought him towards his finish. Syrillon shuffled in, his own two hands taking over the job, and he found a spot on the mage’s bare neck to leave little, thankful marks with his teeth. Dorian’s breaths hitched and, the two of them meeting in a too-sloppy kiss, he rutted his hips into the elf’s hands with his release.

The kiss was salty and sticky and filled with breathless gasps for air. When it came to an end, Syrillon launched his lips at the mage’s neck once more, peppering kisses rather than bites. The spill on his hands and shirt would mean clean-up.

He drew away, catching the remains of pearly-white fluid on his tongue. Dorian sat back, head pressed against the stone, placid and relaxed. Syrillon tucked himself back into his trousers, somewhat more concerned with propriety than the other man. He was more in the view of any passers-by as it was, anyway.

“Well,” Dorian drawled, letting out a deep sigh, “that was better than I’d daydreamed.”

“You daydream about going down on me?” Syrillon pecked another kiss to his lips. “You’re adorable. And perfect.” Syrillon slipped out of his jacket, then shrugged his tunic over his head. “Come here. You’ve got a little…”

“Yes, I’m sure I do.” Dorian let out a tired laugh and allowed Syrillon to wipe at his mouth and chin with the soiled fabric of his undershirt. One hand braced at Dorian’s jaw, he paused in his tidying and simply regarded him with a shy smile.

“Yes?” Dorian asked, barely a murmur, as the elf appraised him in silence. His blushed lips, his messed hair. Black-brown eyelashes fluttered in a tired blink, hiding away those bright blue eyes for a scant moment.

“Take the day off.” Syrillon said, quiet.

“I’m partway through it already--”

“I’ll make it worth your while. I’m a terrible and greedy man, y’see, and I wanna languish in your company until the end of time.” He let out a melodramatic sigh. “But I could make do with half a day. If you’ll have me.”

“Oh, _alright._ You insufferable sap.” Syrillon's teeth-baring smile was louder than the giggle which escaped through them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment letting me know your thinkies. :)


End file.
